Diverse Voices Quarterly Issue 1 & 2

LIKE A POOR GIRL
I wear my jewelry like a poor girl—large and real. I wear my clothes like a
poor girl—cleaned and ironed. My whites are always whiter than white and
I’m always de-linting myself when I wear black. There’s not a spec of dirt or
fuzz on my sweaters. Like a poor girl, I am self-conscious at formal tables. I
lose my tongue. I don’t order beer. Like a poor girl I read Dostoyevsky on the
train. Because, like a poor girl, I have overeducated myself. I am like a poor
girl when I get my paycheck. I spend it all at once, down to my last ten
dollars. I cannot save a thing. For, like a poor girl, there are so many things I
need, like a cashmere coat, tailor-made in North Beach, with silk lining and
antique buttons. And it’s impossible for me to imagine going without wine
from the wine shop, fresh-baked bread, and organic produce, since like a
poor girl, I must have the best of everything. My desk at work is always clean,
my bathroom at home is spotless—I bleach each mold spot when it first
appears. Like a poor girl, I live in the best city, in a lovely neighborhood, in a
darling apartment. But in spite of all that I do, like a poor girl, nothing works,
and it’s always apparent right away to everyone that I am a poor girl, and like
the poor girl that I am I can’t help looking into the windows of Boulevard
restaurant as I pass by on my lunch break, even though I tell myself that
there’s nothing to look at inside but white people eating delicate portions of
salmon and tossed greens and drinking glasses of wine. Still, I can’t help but
look in at them—especially the men—because deep inside I will always be,
just like a poor girl.
—Mira Martin-Parker
Diverse Voices Quarterly, Vol. 1, Issue 1 & 2
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